When The Rules No Longer Apply
by Jamie552
Summary: A new nurse arrives at the 4077th and becomes instant friends with two surgeons. With their help, one in particular, she tries to adjust to how different life can be while at war.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's**** Note:** This is my first M*A*S*H story and I'm quite nervous about it :) I hope that everyone who reads it enjoys it!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own M*A*S*H or any of the wonderful characters. Just playing in the sandbox. I do wish I owned Trapper though, not gonna lie.

* * *

To say that she felt out of her element would probably be the biggest understatement a person could ever make.

Korea.

June. 1951.

Intense summer heat, swarms of flies, and the distant sound of far-off mortar fire; if she focused hard enough, she could almost feel the vibration coming up through the passenger seat of the jeep.

The strong wind was threatening to blow her hat off and she covered it with her hand, trying to hold it on her head. She'd been born and raised in New York, one of the biggest cities in the world, and as the Korean countryside went sweeping by, the culture shock was hitting her like a battering ram. Poor living conditions, extreme poverty, the difference in weather, even the small amount of food she'd been given before leaving the airport had sent her stomach twisting.

It was a new world to her and it was astonishing to think that some Americans had been within Korea's borders for coming up on a year and a half.

The driver of the jeep, a Corporal Hollard if she remembered correctly, looked over at her and yelled over the wind. "You're gonna like this unit, ma'am! Real good people!"

It felt like she'd been on the go for days.

The letter had been delivered by official Army courier first thing on a Monday morning and for the first few minutes all she could do was stand there in her doorway clutching it in her hands. She'd made it through the draft by chance and had continued working at the hospital in Queens, treating patients and helping the few remaining surgeons that had remained stateside. But as staggering casualty reports had come in and as stories of over-work and under-staffing at most MASH hospitals throughout Korea had become public, there had been rumblings among staff that the well-known envelopes would start re-circulating.

The exact envelope that Grace McGarry had received.

She spent the day packing and trying to get herself organized, saying goodbye to and trying to comfort her parents and little sister, who were acting like she'd been sent to the electric chair. In the midst of all the madness she'd reported to the draft board offices in Queens, had her physical, been fitted for her uniforms, officially been given the rank of Lieutenant, and was instructed to be at the airport the following morning for her flight to San Francisco, where she would catch a connecting flight to Hawaii, and then a third flight the rest of the way to Kimpo Air Base in Seoul.

Twenty hours later she was deplaning in Korea and the chronically cheery Corporal Hollard had been waiting, seeming almost excited to relieve her of her bags.

Her assigned unit, the 4077th, was only a little more than three miles from the front and usually saw some of, if not _the_ worst, casualties the war had to offer. Rumors were going around that they held the record for the longest 'session'; doctors standing and operating for over sixteen hours straight with only sips of orange juice and the occasional bite of a sandwich to keep them going. Another rumor was that the 4077 had some of the best and most talented young surgeons to be drafted, their efficiency and success ratings topping out at just over 92% and 94%, respectively.

There had been a gaggle of nurses in and around the air base and they had all nodded with approval when Grace had joined the conversation and shared her assignment. One or two of them blushed, saying that they had been assigned there briefly and had been hoping to go back…that the commanding officer was wonderful, that the head nurse was a force to be reckoned with…and she was warned repeatedly to watch out for someone un-affectionately referred to as _ferret face_.

All in all, they said, it was a great place to go, and there was a small part of Grace that was relieved at the positive reviews.

The jeep took a corner faster than what was probably safe and Grace felt her stomach twist again. The road changed suddenly from sand to gravel and the camp came into view just beyond a grouping of trees; there was an old wooden sign that read _'4077__th__MASH: BEST CARE ANYWHERE" _and an unknown number of dark green tents were scattered just beyond it.

Hollard brought the jeep to a screaming stop, kicking up a cloud of gravel dust. He jumped out, leaving Grace a few precious seconds to really look around at the place that would be serving as her home for the foreseeable future. It was easy to tell that it was _not_ a camp full of soldiers…quite the opposite, in fact. People _were_ wearing the standard army green uniforms, strolling or walking with a purpose, coming in and out of the various tents and buildings, but they didn't seem as rigid as what she would expect from an army base. There was a steady stream of noise coming from what she assumed was the mess tent, and the hospital and post-op wards seemed to be going pretty steadily as well.

The sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel ground drew her attention and Grace turned just in time to see a man running up to the jeep—he was a little on the short side, his wool cap was askew, and his glasses were in desperate need of a good cleaning. He was carrying a clipboard in his hands.

"Lieutenant McGarry?"

She moved to get out of the jeep on her own but the approaching man beat her to it, extending his hand to help her. She smiled in thanks.

"Welcome to the 4077th. Colonel Blake's sorry he can't be here himself, he's in surgery."

Without giving her a chance to respond, he shoved his clipboard under an arm and proceeded to wrestle her bags from the back of the jeep.

She raised her eyebrows. For such a small-framed person, he seemed remarkably strong.

Then the clipboard fell.

Grace bent down carefully in her skirt and picked it up, wiping away the small layer of dust that had settled on it when it hit the ground. The man seemed horrifically embarrassed and Grace tried to put him at ease, saying, "I didn't get your name?"

He visibly swallowed hard, "Radar O'Riley, ma'am. Corporal and company clerk."

"Nice to meet you, Corporal."

He gave a shy young smile. "You too, ma'am."

Somehow carrying all of her bags, he very politely asked her to follow him away from the jeep and into the small cluster of tents. He pointed out Colonel Blake's tent…and there was a medium sized one with a painted sign above the door that read _Swamp_. _That _particular tent was also alive with noise—loud and even hysterical sounding laughter.

Radar led her to the camp's VIP tent and struggled for a moment to open the door, unceremoniously banging one of her suitcases into the door frame as he fought his way inside. She followed quietly, taking in her surroundings.

The tent was bare with only a single cot, a meager writing desk that had seen better days, a tall locker where she would hang up her dress uniforms and her spare fatigues, and a bedside table.

Radar carefully set her bags down near the bed and said, "Colonel Blake asked me to tell you that you'll be moving into the nurses' quarters probably closer to the end of the week. Your new cot is on back-order."

After a few more minutes, and a promise that the head nurse would be stopping by a little later on, Radar excused himself and headed for the door. It was only when Grace called out to him that he turned back around, a genuinely inquisitive expression on his face. "I was wondering," she took her hat off, holding it in her hands, "Why _Radar_?"

His inquisitiveness grew. "Ma'am?"

"I'm…assuming it's a nickname?"

"Oh, uh, yes ma'am. It was Cap'n Pierce—our chief surgeon?—he came up with it 'cause I can kinda…hear things before anyone else can."

"What kinds of things?"

"Choppers."

The significance of that one word wasn't lost on her and she slowly nodded, putting a small smile on her face. "Thank you, Radar."

"You're welcome, ma'am."

"Please. Call me Grace."

The horrifyingly embarrassed look was back but Radar nodded, and Grace could've sworn there was a slight tint of red in the apples of his cheeks as he left.

Once alone, she changed into her casual green fatigues quickly, eager to get out of her brown dress uniform. There was enough space in the locker for all of her spare clothes as well as for a pair of shoes, and she changed out of her brown heels before pulling on black socks and stuffing her feet into her new boots, which still had to be broken in.

And lastly, Grace carefully placed her new dog tags around her neck. They were heavier than she expected.

Letting out a long and tired breath she turned away from her suitcase and plunked herself down onto the cot. The springs squeaked loudly and she couldn't help but cringe, sure that the _entire_ camp had heard.

It was too surreal.

She'd packed her bags, said goodbye to her family, flown halfway around the world…and it was just hitting her, right there, at _that_ moment. She was officially part of the war effort, but one of the hundreds of members of the Army Nurse Corps.

There was a confident knock on the door and Grace started slightly. "Come in."

The door swung open and two men strolled in—the first was tall and lean, with jet black hair and the hint of a five o'clock shadow…the second was a little taller, much brawnier, and had short and curly blonde hair. The former was carrying a beat up wicker basket.

A little surprised but pleased nonetheless, Grace stood from the cot and smiled at them in welcome.

The smiles she got in return were staggering.

The one with black hair was the first to speak. "We were told that there was a Lt. McTarry living here. Or is my rare talent for deciphering Radar's love-struck ramblings failing me?"

Grace laughed, "Very close. It's _McGarry_. Grace McGarry. The Lieutenant part was right, though."

The second man, the blonde, chuckled, "Hey, one outta two ain't bad."

He had a Boston accent. She placed it almost immediately.

"Hawkeye Pierce," the black-haired man started with a smile, "Captain, chief surgeon, and one of the drivers of the welcome wagon," he motioned to the blonde, "and my co-pilot, Trapper McIntyre—also a Captain, also a surgeon…and resident stud-muffin."

Grace was still smiling. "Nice to meet you both."

Hawkeye held up the wicker basket with pleasure, "At the welcome wagon, we've made it our mission to make sure all newcomers—"

"Nurses, mostly." Trapper interjected.

"—are provided the necessities of life."

"Doesn't…the army do that?"

"Oh no, we provide the _real_ necessities," He reached into the basket and displayed the various items one at a time—two rolls of toilet paper, a medium-sized bottle of clear liquid, a brand new bar of soap wrapped in cloth, and a small pack of what looked like saltine crackers.

The _real_ necessities. The things that were the most scarce.

And lastly, Trapper produced a bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back.

Grace was so surprised by the gesture that for the first few seconds all she could do was stand there staring at it.

She eventually looked up and both men were still smiling at her, as if they did this kind of thing all the time and were used to that kind of reaction. She reached out for the flowers, her fingers and eyes making contact with Trapper. It was her first time seeing him, her first time meeting him, but she could tell immediately that there was something in his eyes; a mischievousness, a boyish playfulness, and she felt herself color under her freckles. "Thank you, that's very sweet."

He must've noticed because a very distinctive crooked grin took over his face, his eyes practically sparkling.

It was Hawkeye that finally broke the silence.

"So, Lieutenant…where do you hail from?"

Grace broke the eye contact with Trapper and cleared her throat, "Call me Grace, please. I'm from New York."

"New York?"

"Pretty swanky."

"No, not really," she chuckled. "big buildings, busy streets, a few million bad attitudes."

Trapper snorted, "Then you'll feel right at home here. We got plenty of bad attitudes, too."

"But surely not _you two_?"

Hawkeye shook his head innocently, "Oh no, not _us_."

"We don't know how to be bad—"

"Well, we _do_, but—"

"Only with certain people."

She couldn't help it. She laughed.

A pause, and then, "Nice smile, eh, Trap?"

Trapper nodded and the crooked grin was back, "Sure is. Real beauty."

Grace didn't have the chance to blush again.

There was a brisk and startling knock on the door and without waiting for a response, a woman—who was maybe in her late thirties or early forties, with long blonde hair, and dressed in the standard green fatigues—made her way into the tent. Her posture was rigid and practically perfect, her face was serious, and her eyes immediately went to the two surgeons with a look of pure long-suffering. "And what, may I ask, are you two doing in here?"

"We're the welcome wagon, Margaret."

"Oh please."

Trapper sighed, "Come on, Hot Lips—"

The reaction was almost instantaneous. The Major puffed out her chest and pointed at the door, her voice rising _at least_ fifty decibels as she yelled at them. "Get out!"

Hawkeye looked over to Grace and said, "We're in the Swamp—"

Houlihan advanced on them and they scrambled to get out the door, both yelling back at her as the tent's door swung closed and blocked them from view.

After a few deep and calming breaths, Houlihan turned back around and adjusted herself. She was rigid and serious once more. "Lieutenant."

Something in Grace's gut told her to salute, and she did, her right hand whipping up to her forehead quickly. Houlihan looked approving and returned the gesture. "I apologize for not being there to greet you when you first arrived, I got caught up in surgery."

"I understand, Major."

"I trust you're settling in well?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I hope that Captains Pierce and McIntyre were respectful at _least_."

"Oh, yes, ma'am," Grace nodded reassuringly. "they were very pleasant."

"Yes, I'm sure." The Major snorted indignantly, then said, "I'm going to give you a piece of advice that I give to _all _of my new nurses: stay away from them. Any politeness they give you is an act, trust me…their ultimate goal, _whatever_ it is, is sure to be perverted."

Grace was still holding the small bouquet of wildflowers and merely blinked.

The nurses at the airport had been right. This woman was going to be a _real_ force to be reckoned with.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own M*A*S*H or any of the wonderful characters. Still just playing in the sandbox. Please don't sue.

Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter!

* * *

The blazing sun set over the 4077th a little after seven o'clock and Grace let out a breath, rubbing her eyes tiredly as she left the supply tent. She'd been following Major Houlihan around for nearly four hours as a part of her orientation, which had included in-depth tours of the admitting ward and OR, pre-op and post-op, x-ray, the lab, and lastly, the supply tent. It had left Grace's head reeling.

When it came to the bare essentials, the 4077th was fully stocked…but she realized quickly that she'd have to adapt from having everything she could ever need or want in a major metropolitan hospital, to going through and monitoring inventory and requisitions with a fine-tooth comb. Every MASH unit that had been deployed throughout Korea received a set amount of medication and supplies per month and it was up to the doctors and the rest of the surgical staff to stretch it as far as they could.

She had officially been added to the hospital's duty roster and it was strange seeing her name included in a list of complete strangers, but there was a small part of her that was anxious to get back into the OR. It wasn't lost on her how close they were to the front and she wanted to make a real difference, as often as she could.

Sometime in the near future she'd run into that hospital, put on a gown, mask, and gloves, and help one of the surgeons put a young man back together.

The thought of it was giving her a stress headache.

Grace was so lost in her thoughts, so completely oblivious to her surroundings, that she had to stifle a scream when she crashed face-first into someone traveling in the opposite direction.

Two hands shot out to steady her and there was a familiar chuckle, "Whoa, hey, I got you," Trapper was gripping her arms gently. "You ok?"

The blush that took over her face _that_ time was one of complete embarrassment and she let out a chuckle of her own. It was a horrible habit, laughing when she was nervous. "Captain McIntyre, I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where I was—"

"_Captain McIntyre_?" He cringed, "You spend a couple hours with Hot Lips and you go all army on us. I _told_ Hawk we shouldn't have left you alone with her." Grace chuckled, as was his intention. "You just finish your orientation?"

"Yes sir. Officially on the duty roster and I think I saw every single nook and cranny in the place."

"Yeah, that's somethin' we got a lot of, nooks and crannies. When's your first shift?"

"Tomorrow morning, post-op."

There must've been something off in her voice because the expression on his face changed slightly—there was still amusement, but there also seemed to be a bit of concern. He furrowed his brow and dipped his head down to look at her. "You ok?"

She sighed, raking her hand through her long honey-colored hair. "It's just…been a long day."

He seemed to understand exactly what she meant because he nodded and shoved his hands casually into the pockets of his pants. In a considerably quieter voice he said, "First night's always the worst."

She looked up at him, "Yeah?"

Trapper nodded again, "My first night here was pretty rough. Drank beer straight through 'til morning."

"I feel pretty silly, actually. Here I am, homesick after only one day and you've all been here as long as you have."

"No reason to feel silly," he shrugged his shoulders, "you're always gonna be homesick, that doesn't go away. But once you get comfortable, its not so bad."

"Really?"

"No," the crooked smile was back, "but you'll be ok. You'll go into surgery and then it'll be like you've been here the whole time."

She returned the smile, but something told her that hers wasn't as alluring as his was. "I appreciate the encouragement."

"Hey, I got plenty. And if you ever need more, we're right across the street." Trapper motioned to the large tent in the middle of the compound and she remembered that it was the one that said _Swamp_ above the door. She _also_ remembered Hawkeye saying something about the Swamp as Houlihan had kicked them out of the VIP tent earlier. "We're practically neighbors. We got a poker game goin' at our place tonight, if you wanna…?"

"Thanks for the offer, but I really should get some sleep."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I think so."

He nodded for her to follow. "Come on, it's on my way."

She fell into step beside him and wrapped her arms around herself, surprised at the slight chill in the air. The sun had been beating down on her all day and she knew she had a slight burn on the back of her neck.

Trapper broke the companionable silence…

"So are you gonna be movin' into the nurses' quarters soon or…"

Grace nodded and glanced over at him. "Radar said hopefully by the end of the week. Cot-ordering troubles."

"Welcome to the R.O.K., _everything_ is on back-order—from boots, to pencils, to penicillin, to toilet paper."

"Is that why the welcome wagon gave me two rolls?"

Trapper let out a loud laugh, "The most valuable thing _in_ that basket." He paused for a second, "Well, _that_ and the gin."

Her mind traveled back to the small bottle of clear liquid still sitting in the wicker basket.

"Ah, so _that's_ what that stuff is. Homemade or the real stuff?"

"Honey, since I met Hawk I've learned that homemade _is_ the real stuff."

As they walked, Trapper launched into the story.

Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce and Captain John Francis Xavier McIntyre had both arrived only a few days after hostilities had begun, in June of the year before, and the pair had become instant friends. They laughed easily and often, having things in common such as a dry sense of humor, a love for both good booze and pretty woman, as well as a talent for pranks and increasingly creative practical jokes. But they hadn't really _bonded_, become real partners in crime, until after Frank Burns had arrived.

A Major, and a stickler for military correctness as long as it benefited him, Burns was so obnoxious, so pious, so unbelievably unbearable that the two other residents of the Swamp had banded together right away. The amusement they shared at 'grinding Frank's gears', as Col. Blake often referred to it, grew at such an alarming rate that it became their regular form of entertainment…_that, _along with a few other choice activities that had made the Swamp the center of social goings-on.

The first weeks passed slowly and Trapper told her that he remembered the day clearly where Hawkeye had said he'd give anything, or kiss anyone, for a good dry martini.

And that's when it had begun.

Once the thought had been put into their heads neither man could get rid of it, and after only a couple of days of suffering, their cravings finally got the best of them. Whenever they weren't on duty or tending to wounded, they were scavenging…looking for and salvaging spare parts to build the now infamous still that held a place of honor in their tent. They'd picked up some cheap martini glasses on one of their trips to Tokyo and had been drinking fifty percent of their meals ever since.

By the time he'd finished talking, Grace was giggling. "And Colonel Blake doesn't mind that you guys are running a gin mill?"

"Nah, Henry's a good guy...and we got our own way of doin' things 'round here."

"Yeah, I can tell."

So caught up in their conversation, they ended up circling the camp nearly three times and the both of them were still chuckling when they walked up to the doorway of the VIP tent.

Grace turned towards him, letting out another breath. "Thanks for the walk, Captain, and the history."

"_Trapper_, please, no more army-talk. I just ate."

Grace bemusedly shook her head, "You don't have one _ounce_ of army in you, do you?"

"Look, back home I was workin' at Mass General and the worst thing I ever had to deal with was strangulated hernias. Now I'm here, sewin' up kids not old enough to shave just to send 'em back into a meat grinder." He shook his head, "No, I'm not army. I'm a _doctor_. Can't be both."

She realized as he was speaking that Trapper, and most likely Hawkeye as well seeing as how they were so close, were uncommon in the world of medicine.

After graduating as a surgical nurse in early 1947, Grace had seen her fair share of jaded and worn-out doctors. Some had lost their bedside manner, while others demonstrated insensitivity and skepticism in ways that were startling.

In her experience, it was a very rare thing to find doctors that really and truly _cared_ about their patients. Cared about them as _people_. Cared about them so much that they got angry or distressed when circumstances kept them from doing their jobs to the best of their abilities. Or, in the case of the war, made their abilities meaningless.

"Well, from what I've heard, you're a very good doctor." She sent him a smile. "And even though I know you don't _want_ to be here...I have to be honest and say that I'm glad you are."

He made a face. "Glad? Why glad?"

"I took a quick walk through post-op today with Major Houlihan. I didn't get to meet anyone but every patient I saw was up and around, playing cards or writing letters. They all looked to be in...good spirits_._" She glanced over at him. "Everyone around here keeps saying that surgery is a kind of team effort. The patients are brought in, the nurses prep them, the surgeons open them up, and then the nurses _and_ surgeons put them back together again before the patients are carried back out. No one in this camp could do their jobs without the help of everyone else."

"That's true."

"Is it?" Grace shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I'm sure if you were ordered to prep a patient for surgery you'd be able to do it without any problem. I know if I was ordered to perform a splenectomy tomorrow, I wouldn't be able to do it."

"Hey, I dunno. You seem like a pretty smart kid." He smiled gently.

"I have my moments." She smiled back. "But you, Hawkeye, Colonel Blake, and Major Burns are the miracle workers, if you ask me. The nurses are amazing, of course, but it was your magic fingers that brought those boys back from the brink."

To her complete surprise, Trapper laughed, "Frank Burns? There's a _great_ example of a person not being able to be both army and a doctor."

"How so?"

"He's no doctor. He's army. _All_ the way."

His meaning dawned on her and she simply shook her head, her smile returning at the sound of his chuckles.

Despite his mirth, something had shifted in his face and because she hardly knew him she couldn't read exactly what it was. Maybe it was relief? Or gratitude? Whatever it was, she was sorry to see that it disappeared as quickly as it came.

The Swamp was only a couple of feet away from where they stood, the distance small enough that Hawkeye's uproarious laughter and the clink of poker chips broke through the tongue-tied silence that had suddenly fallen between them. After swallowing hard, she nodded her head in the direction of the noise, "Sounds like you're missing out."

"They're not goin' anywhere," he shrugged a shoulder, "and I'm havin' a good time right here."

She was once again reminded of the nurses at the airport. When she'd told them that she was going to the 4077th, the first thing several of them had done was furiously blush.

Standing there with Trapper, she understood why.

These two men, Trapper and Hawkeye, were charmers unlike anything she'd ever seen before.

He was staring at her...

"Trapper!"

Grace jumped as if she'd been burnt and Trapper called out, "Yo!" without taking his eyes off of her face.

Radar came scurrying around the corner, "_There_ you are, sir.", and stopped just short of the walkway to Grace's tent. It had gotten darker and he was squinting to see them. "Cap'n Pierce is looking for you, he wants to deal you in—" he paused for a second and then waved his hand timidly, "Oh, hello, ma'am."

Trapper pulled his hands from his pockets and started to move by her, saying quietly, "I'm kinda glad you're here, too."

And then he winked at her.

The moment he reached Radar's side, Trapper draped an arm across the younger man's shoulders and the two companions ambled away in the direction of the Swamp. The moment they entered the tent, a chorus of voices called out greetings, and as always, Hawkeye's was the loudest.

Grace stood there for a minute or two and tried to calm her rushing blood.

When she went to bed that night, it was the to sound of chirping crickets and the rowdy hilarity going on just across the way.

* * *

Radar gently woke her up at sunrise the following morning, bringing with him a steaming mug of coffee on a tray and a cheerful disposition, both of which she accepted gratefully. It was the weakest coffee she'd ever had—more like hot water with food coloring in it—but there was a definite caffeine rush that helped her haul herself off her cot.

He left the tent so she could get dressed and the moment she stepped outside, with her stethoscope draped across the back of her neck, he was bobbing along at her side chattering away quickly. He'd proven that his instructions were invaluable so she listened carefully as they crossed the compound. The others on the day shift were ambling around just as she was, some still half asleep…or maybe they were just hung-over.

She noticed that the Swamp was conspicuously quiet.

They reached the door to post-op quickly where Radar happily wished her good luck. She thanked him for the wonderful wake-up call and pushed her way inside.

There was a white privacy curtain just inside the door and the moment she pushed it aside she forced herself to take a deep breath. A good number of their twelve beds were full, soldiers healing from various wounds and surgical procedures, their charts hanging from a thin metal bar at the foot of their cots. At the far end of the ward a nurse was sitting at a writing desk, reading from a stack of papers by the light of an army-issued desk lamp.

Grace walked down the line of wounded towards her and as soon as she got close enough to notice the nurse looked up and smiled. "Lieutenant Grace McGarry?" Grace nodded and the other woman stood from her chair, holding out her hand. "Lieutenant Ginger Bayliss. Welcome to the 4077th."

Grace returned the smile. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to talk yesterday," she cringed slightly, "the Major seemed to have you pretty busy."

"Yeah, the whole day is kind of a blur."

She laughed, "I know what you mean."

The two of them chatted for a few more minutes, getting acquainted—Grace learned that she and Ginger were the same age and grew up practically as next door neighbors, Grace being from New York and Ginger from Pennsylvania. She found out that the coffee-skinned nurse was married, her and her husband having just bought their own little one bedroom house on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. They'd just started talking about having children when the war started and Ginger had been drafted.

The saddened expression on her face when speaking of her husband made a very small part of Grace happy that she hadn't left a sweetheart of her own behind.

They moved on to the updates and Grace was introduced to the patients while at the same time hearing in-depth accounts of the injuries they'd had, what each respective doctor had done during surgery to correct it, and what had transpired since.

The other nurses on day shift filed in one by one and after making sure that Grace had been introduced to them, Ginger took her leave, exchanging a quick hello with Hawkeye as he strolled onto the ward.

For the first time since arriving the previous day, Grace looked at Hawkeye Pierce and saw a _doctor_; complete with a white coat, a stethoscope, and the air of a man who'd walked up and down that aisle a thousand times.

One of the patients called out to him to wish him good morning and Hawkeye changed his course, going immediately to the man's bedside and kneeling over him. They exchanged quiet words, the doctor cracking a joke and the patient smiling tiredly.

Grace couldn't help but smile herself at the sight of it and the moment Hawkeye noticed she was there he bid a quiet goodbye to the man in the bed and walked towards her, "Hello, hello, hello," he settled a friendly hand on her shoulder, "welcome to the wonderful world of post-op, Nurse McGarry."

"Thank you."

"We're still waiting on the Egyptian sheets and the silk scrubs, but my sources tell me it should be any day now." Grace's smile grew, as did Hawkeye's, and he said, "I didn't know you were on duty this morning."

"Looks like I'm your newest recruit."

"Good to have you here, you pretty the place up. Did Ginger give you the nickel and dime tour?"

He opened his mouth to speak again when another nurse's voice called out to him, "Doctor?" Hawkeye motioned for Grace to follow and headed towards the nurse, reaching out and taking the chart she offered as soon as he was close enough. She gestured towards the unconscious patient in the bed—there was a sheen of sweat covering his face. "He came in day before yesterday, multiple chest?"

"Yeah, I remember," Hawkeye sighed, flipping up the first page of the chart to read what was underneath. "dozen or so shrapnel fragments, collapsed lung..."

"Slight increase in his temperature, it's up to 100.2. Ginger marked it first thing this morning."

He pulled a pencil from the breast pocket of his white lab coat and started to jot down notes, speaking in a clear voice, "Alright, same orders as last night. Could be an infection. Start him on penicillin and keep a close eye on him. If his temperature goes up any more let me know."

The nurse, that Grace recognized as Lieutenant Dish, nodded and took back the chart.

Hawkeye looked back at Grace before motioning to the patient, "Eighteen years old, a Canadian."

"Eighteen? Are they all that young?"

"Most of them—I find marines are especially young, they usually average around eighteen to twenty-two," he hesitated a moment, "Had a fifteen year old, once."

Grace's eyes widened, "_Fifteen_?"

"Appendicitis. Long story short, sent him home."

"Thank God."

"That's exactly what I said," he sent her a kind smile, "Welcome to the party—you need anything, just holler."

And that's how it was; Hawkeye made his rounds, talking to the patients and sometimes sitting with them, going over their charts with the nearest nurse and making the necessary changes.

Most of the patients were in good spirits, however _all_ of them were eager to return to the line. She lost count of how many of the men said that they felt 'fine' whenever she asked, despite being bandaged and medicated within an inch of their lives.

She spent a good deal of her time listening to the men wearily tell jokes and help them write letters home. There was one patient in particular that she stuck close to—Corporal Shatford, who had only been in Korea a little less than three months, was almost beside himself as he'd tried to respond to a letter from his wife. At first, Grace had been worried that he'd received one of the infamous _dear john_ letters, but later found out that his wife had given birth to their first child, a baby girl, only a couple of days before he'd shipped out, and that the baby was horrendously colicky. She had volunteered to help him write and had given as much advice as she could about how to soothe colicky babies; including massage, gentle noises, and simply rocking her when the crying got particularly vigorous. Once the letter was completed, Shatford had politely asked her how it was she knew so much about babies. _"Being a surgical nurse was always my dream," _she'd said, "_but midwifery was a close second."_

It was only a couple of hours after her shift had started that three visitors made their way into post-op.

Trapper was in the lead, followed closely by two other men that she hadn't met yet. One of the men was short, fidgety, and every step he took was more like a stomp…while the second man was taller, had a cigar in his mouth, and was wearing a material hat that was _covered_ in fishing hooks and feathers.

As soon as he was close enough, Trapper said, "Thought you hard workin' kids could use some entertainment."

He moved to stand next to Grace and the shorter of the two men with him forced his way up to her, almost knocking Trapper over in the process. As Trapper made a face behind the man's back, he said, "Lieutenant, welcome to the 4077. I must say how wonderful it is to see someone as young as yourself serving proudly-"

"Aw, can it, Frank," the second man said, his voice muffled slightly due to the cigar. "It's not like she _asked for_ this job, she was forced into it just like the rest of us." He also held his hand out and Grace shook it, her back straightening slightly when she recognized the Lt. Colonel medal pinned in the midst of all the fish hooks. He smiled pleasantly at her. "Welcome to the madhouse, Lieutenant."

"And," Hawkeye added, "he says _madhouse_ with great love and affection."

Trapper stepped in, "Grace, this is Henry Blake…Colonel, commanding officer, surgeon—"

"And," Hawkeye added again, "babysitter."

Grace opened her mouth to say hello but the man that Colonel Blake had referred to as Frank—who was without a doubt the obnoxious Major that Trapper had told her about—spoke up first, "_Major_ Frank Burns," he puffed his chest out and grabbed her now vacant hand, shaking it enthusiastically, "second in command and the only _true_ patriot in this camp."

"_And_," Hawkeye added for a third time, now with a smirk on his face, "malpractice expert."

If it was possible, Major Burns' chest puffed out even further and he looked completely incensed, "Colonel!"

"Lay off, will you, Pierce?"

Burns let out a loud and indignant snort.

"Doesn't it have to be midnight for you to turn into a pig, Frank?"

"_Colonel!"_

"Pierce!"

Grace had absolutely no idea what to say so she stood there and listened to the fracas in stunned silence. It was remarkably hard not to laugh—what, with the Major acting like an upset child the more Hawkeye teased him—but she somehow managed to keep herself quiet, knowing that her laughter would only make matters worse.

Trapper on the other hand was laughing out loud.

This kind of scene must've been a regular occurrence in post-op because most of the patients and nurses simply chuckled or shook their heads, seeming amused by all the commotion. Hawkeye, Burns, and Col. Blake were all talking at once and as the noise level steadily increased the feeling of amusement in the ward skyrocketed…not helped at all by Trapper's continued laughter.

The Colonel suddenly spoke up.

"Alright, that's enough!" He waved his arms flamboyantly, looking very distressed, and to Grace's astonishment all three of the surgeons fell silent. They were watching him attentively, the Major's chest still heaving, "Will you guys stop fighting, I feel like I'm running one of those daycare centers…and for _pete's sake McIntyre_ stop _laughing_ like that, this is a hospital. Frank—" he looked over to Major Burns, "you're not on duty until tonight, what are you doing in here?"

"Major Houlihan informed me that a new nurse arrived last night, I wanted to welcome her to—"

"Paradise." Trapper looked over at her and winked.

She couldn't help it. She was blushing again.

"Oh, now, look, you got her blushing—" Henry sighed, looking hopeless. "McIntyre, will you and Frank get outta here?"

Burns let out another snort and stormed from the ward while Trapper said, "Sure thing, Henry." He leaned over towards Grace again, "They're servin' a chicken-like-substance for dinner, wanna meet in the mess tent after shift?"

Grace nodded, her face still warm. "That sounds good."

Trapper smiled at her, exchanged a few hushed words with Hawkeye, and then was pushing his way through the doorway that led to the compound.

After taking a few moments to collect herself, she made her way back to Hawkeye's side and helped him however she could; whether it be bringing him ice packs and tubes for taking blood, or making notes of his verbal instructions on each individual patient's chart. He was positively jovial, making jokes and smiling with the wounded…but he also knew when to be serious.

There was a young marine in bed four, only nineteen years old according to his chart, and when Grace reported that he was complaining of nausea and severe abdominal pain, Hawkeye took the chart and furrowed his brow as he studied it.

It only took him a minute or two of puzzling. He gave the chart back to Grace and then went over to the marine's bunk, taking a seat next to him. He carefully lowered the blanket to the marine's waist and exposed his mid-section. Grace stood at the foot of the cot.

The young man swallowed hard, "Hey doc."

"Nurse McCutie tells me you're not feelin' so hot."

The younger man frowned, "McCutie?"

"Yeah," Hawkeye glanced at her over his shoulder and smirked, "She _is _awful cute." Grace simply smiled and shook her head at him, watching as he turned back to his patient. "What hurts?"

Whatever smile that had been generated due to his doctor's antics dissolved quickly, a look of agony crossing the young man's features as Hawkeye examined his stomach, "My gut," he said in a strained voice, "sharp pains. Something's wrong, doc, I can feel it."

"Ok, just try to relax."

Hawkeye carefully and methodically pressed the tips of his fingers into the marine's abdomen and the moment he touched a spot about an inch to the right of his bellybutton, the younger man let out a pained cry. The sound of it set Grace's teeth on edge.

Hawkeye stopped the examination and lowered the blanket again, speaking in a gentle voice, "Stick around awhile, ok?" He stood from the bunk and walked back towards Grace, reaching out for the chart. "Could be an abscess…"

"Intra-abdominal?"

"It would make sense; he was on the table for a long time and had enough metal in his belly to frame a jeep." He let out a sigh, still looking serious. "Start him on a full course of tetracycline—no penicillin, he has an allergy—five-hundred-thousand units. If his fever doesn't go down, we'll have to try something else."

"Do you think you'll have to operate again?"

"I don't know, too soon to tell. Let's get blood cultures, white blood count, see if it shows anything."

"Yes, doctor."

After a second's hesitation, Hawkeye motioned to the marine's IV, "And keep _those_ babies coming, baby, we promised free refills in all our posters."

_END_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's**** Note:** Thanks to everyone that read the first two entries! :) Got a bad case of writers block so I hope it's ok.

**Disclaimer:**I still don't own M*A*S*H or any of the wonderful characters. Just playing in the sandbox. Please don't sue!

* * *

It was a few minutes after six o'clock when a tired Grace finally made her way into the crowded mess tent, trying her best to stretch the stuff muscles in her shoulders. She'd used one of the pencils in post-op to twist her hair into a tight bun and was massaging her neck as she made her way through the maze of long tables and into the busy chow line.

When she made it to the front of the line, holding one of the beat-up metal trays in her hands, Igor smiled at her and motioned to the food with a large metal spoon. "Chicken, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, please."

"Mashed potatoes?"

Grace nodded.

The potatoes landed on her tray with an unappetizing _splat_ and she forced a thank you smile, sliding her tray down the wooden counter to get coffee. With the white mug balancing precariously on the corner of the tray she took a seat at the first empty table she came across and let out a breath, almost deflating into the bench.

She was sure she must of dozed off as she sat there because the next time she opened her eyes Trapper was sitting across from her, watching her with an amused little smile on his face. He took a quick sip of coffee, then said, "Tired?"

"Exhausted." She rubbed her eyes and then picked up her fork, pushing around her potatoes. "I didn't even do all that much and I feel like I've run a marathon."

"From what I've heard, you did _a lot_. I talked to Hawkeye and he said you did well in there today, you did good work."

"_He's_ the one who did the good work. The patients in post-op think the world of him." She smiled tiredly. "It's funny how you have to come to a place like this to find doctors with such good bedside manner."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet. Wait 'til you see _my_ bedside manner."

She smiled again. "Oh yeah, I'm sure."

"Hey kids—" Hawkeye plunkered down beside Trapper and set his tray on the table, grinning big when the blonde gave him a dirty look. In response to the less-than-enthusiastic welcome, Hawkeye cheerfully said, "Now, you know the rules Trapper; new nurses are tender and innocent creatures. Chaperones are a must," he paused a second, "especially with you."

Trapper frowned, "_Me_? What about _you_?"

"What _about_ me?"

"Bein' dense doesn't suit you, Hawk."

"Now what's _that_ mean?"

Grace was holding in her giggles, while at the same time, trying to force herself to swallow a mouthful of potatoes.

The hilarity continued.

"It means exactly what you _think_ it means. You've smooth-talked more new nurses outta their scrubs than anyone else in this hole."

An offended gasp. "Libel!"

"Hardly."

Grace finally swallowed the potatoes and spoke up. "Uh guys?" Both men looked at her and she smiled, genuinely amused. "Hawkeye, I really do appreciate the gesture, but—"

"But she'll smack me herself if I get fresh?"

Any irritation that had been on Trapper's face melted away and was replaced with a roguish grin. Grace nodded her head approvingly, "Exactly."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes, "Problem with that is, a _smack_ would actually encourage him."

* * *

_Dear Faith,_

_I know I promised before I left that I'd write to you as soon as I got here, Toots, and I'm sorry. Truth is, I'm still trying to get myself settled and it's a lot harder than I expected it would be. _

_Life here is very different than life back in Queens. There are no cars, just jeeps and ambulances. No paved roads or supermarkets. The milk is powdered and so are the eggs. It's remarkably warm and I've wished more than once that I could jump headfirst into Hellman's Creek and then walk down to Donahue's and get an ice cream cone. Have one for me next time you go, will you? Chocolate._

_I'm thankful to say that it's been quiet since I got here. I've been assigned shifts at the hospital and have been spending my spare time reading and learning how to play poker. The two doctors teaching me tell me I'm surprisingly good at it, they've even asked me to play in their big game next week. Wish me luck!_

_Speaking of the doctors, I suppose I should introduce them to you. They're quite an interesting bunch. _

_The first is Benjamin Franklin Pierce, but everyone calls him Hawkeye. He's the chief surgeon and one of two people who have really gone out of their way to make me feel welcome. He tells me it's because I'm cute, but I know that it's more than that. He's genuinely a good person and one of the best doctors I've ever seen. Do you remember when Dad used to take us to the hospital dinner parties and he introduced us to Bobby Hopkins? Hawkeye is a lot like that. He has a loud sense of humor, a deep morality, and a knack for causing trouble. _

_That brings me to Trapper John McIntyre. Another first-rate surgeon, Trapper reminds me more of Uncle Edward than anyone else; he's loud, cheerful, and has a laugh that is truly contagious. His morality is just as deep as Hawkeye's, in some circumstances even more so. I've spent a great deal of time with him since I got here and I can tell you that he's made adjusting easier. Just like everyone else I've met over this last week, he doesn't want to be here…but just like everyone else, he makes the best of it. _

_Trapper and Hawkeye are tent-mates, and if Hawkeye alone has a knack for trouble, the two of them together can be disastrous. I learned that first hand last night after they filled a combat helmet with warm water and used it to make the camp's third surgeon, Major Burns, wet his bed. The Major woke up halfway through having an accident and proceeded to run across the camp, wrapped in a bed sheet, and screaming at the top of his lungs. The camp was in an uproar for the rest of the night. _

_When it comes to tent-mates, I don't have any yet. Since I got here I've been staying on my own but I've been told that I'll be moving in with the other nurses sometime this coming week. I've made some friends working in the hospital and it'll be nice having people to share a space with—_

There was a gentle knock on the door and Grace set her pencil down, saying, "Come in," as she massaged away the cramps in her fingers.

Ginger stuck her head in and smiled, "You decent?"

"Not at all."

The other woman laughed and let herself into the tent, taking a quick look around. "Any idea when you'll be moving in with us?"

"Soon, I hope. It'll be nice having some company."

"You know you can come over and stay any time you want," she laughed again, "but don't tell anyone, fantasies will run rampant."

Grace chuckled, "I can only imagine."

"You feel like a night out? They're getting ready to show a movie in the mess tent."

"Which movie?"

"A Rita Hayworth picture. _Gilda_, I think."

"Oh, that's a good one." After a moment, and a quick glance down at her unfinished letter, she shook her head, "Thanks, but I think I'd rather stay here and get this letter finished."

"Writing to your sweetheart?"

Grace gave a little smile, "No, my little sister. I promised I'd write to her when I got here but time kinda got away from me."

"What's her name?"

"Faith," She paused, "Or _tweedle-dee _and_ tweedle-dum_, as my mother calls us."

"I bet she misses you a lot."

"Not as much as I miss her." Feeling considerably sentimental, Grace cleared her throat and gave herself a mental shake before saying, "Are you gonna watch the movie?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Nothing else to do. Oh, you know, that reminds me…I was in the mess tent just now and I _think_ Trapper was looking around for you." Ginger waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Did you guys have a date?"

"A date? Me and Trapper?"

"I thought you two were an item, you've been spending so much time together lately."

"An item?"

"Yeah," she smiled slightly. "He sits with you at mealtimes, walks you to your tent after shifts—"

"_So_?"

"I'm just sayin'."

Grace put on a little frown, shifting in her chair. "We're just friends."

"You say that _now_. Give it time." Before Grace had the chance to say anything, Ginger said, "Are you sure you don't wanna come see the movie?"

"No. Have some popcorn for me, though."

"You got it." The coffee-skinned woman smiled. "Ok. Sleep good and see you at breakfast?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ginger took her leave quietly, sending a happy wave as she stepped back outside.

Once alone, Grace turned in her chair and picked up the pencil again…

_Well, that's it for now, Toots. Give kisses to Mom and Dad and please remember to walk Sherman twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. If you don't, he'll pee on the rug in your room...I trained him to do it before I left. _

She signed the letter with love and folded it into a small envelope, setting a mental reminder to give it to Radar the following morning.

There was a cheerful ruckus coming from the mess tent and in the midst of it all Grace could hear a distinctive burst of laughter—wild, crazy, and easily recognizable laughter. She thought of Ginger waggling her eyebrows, _'I thought you two were an item'_, and the tall blonde doctor from Boston.

And with those thoughts in her mind and a slight blush in her cheeks, Grace switched off the desk lamp and stood from her chair.

She eventually fell asleep to the cheering and whistles coming from the mess tent, settling down into her blankets.

* * *

_Attention! All personnel! Incoming wounded! Casualties arriving on both the upper and lower pads. All shifts report to OR. On the double, folks!_

Halfway through the announcement there was the sound of running and scuffling feet throughout the camp as everyone sprang into action. Grace, who'd been sitting with Ginger outside of the nurses' tent, didn't hesitate or allow her nerves to overwhelm her as she two of them jumped from their chairs, Grace pulling her hair into a ponytail as she ran.

The sound of chopper rotors was deafeningly loud as was the engines of the ambulances and jeeps as they came roaring into the compound.

As Grace got closer she saw Nurse Kellye crash through the hospital doors and wave her over, holding out a clipboard without a word. Grace took it and held it tightly in her hands, looking around at the chaos somewhat lost; nurses were swarming the wounded soldiers, the doctors were doing triage on the backs of jeeps and in the backs of ambulances, and corpsman moved around quickly with stretchers.

She spotted Hawkeye a short distance away. He roughly grabbed a stethoscope from around a nurse's neck and used it himself, holding it to the chest of the wounded man he was examining, all the while shouting orders.

"Grace!"

A familiar voice rang out over the din and she sought him out.

He was leaning over patients on a nearby jeep and she set off towards him at a run, dodging through traffic and trying desperately not to knock anyone over.

With her pencil ready in her hand, she slid to a stop in the mud and reached out a hand to brace herself against the jeep, "Yeah."

Trapper's grey t-shirt was ruined from bloodstains and sweat and he draped his stethoscope across the back of his neck. "This guy," he motioned to one of the patients, "has a bad belly, multiple hits. He's going in right now and he's mine. Start him on blood, ten units—make sure we've got o-neg."

"Yes, doctor. I'll check with supply."

"Get someone else to do it, you're assisting." Trapper jumped down from the jeep and shouted, "Corpsman!"

The next few moments passed by in a complete blur and when Grace walked into the OR, fully scrubbed and donning the customary white surgical scrubs, rubber gloves, mask, and white cap, she searched Trapper out and made her way directly to his table. The patient with the belly wounds had just been set down in front of him and he nodded at her as she approached, hollering loudly, "We need gas over here!"

One of the other nurses quickly took a seat at the head of the table and placed a black mask over the patient's face, announcing only a few minutes later that he was unconscious.

"Ready, honey?"

Barely registering the endearment but somehow still managing to blush under her mask, Grace nodded.

"Number ten blade."

She handed it over. "Ten blade."

"Hope you don't mind."

"Mind what?"

"I kinda…hijacked you out there."

Grace looked at him across the table and tried to read his expression solely from what she could see in his eyes.

She knew that Trapper McIntyre, and Hawkeye Pierce as well, were charmers and seducers…but there was fire in their eyes as they stood at their own tables. When they gave orders in surgery, those orders were followed without question. She had a feeling that she would never see these two men as serious as they were in the OR, or as _sober_.

"I don't mind." They locked eyes briefly before Trapper looked back down. "I was actually grateful."

"Grateful? Lap sponge."

"Lap sponge. I was a little lost out there. I was…glad when you called me over."

The corners of Trapper's eyes wrinkled and Grace could tell he was smiling. "You don't seem nervous now. Steady as a rock." The laugh lines faded slightly as he threw the now bloody sponge to the floor. "You're doin' great, honey. Just keep it movin'. Long-fingers."

"Long-fingers."

The pace in their operating room was difficult keep up with at first but Grace quickly adjusted to Trapper's rhythm at the table and fell right back into it. He was efficient and thorough, all the while somehow managing to respond to each and every one of Hawkeye's jokes and comments, most of which seemed to be directed at Major Burns.

Colonel Blake, who was working at the table just next to Grace and Trapper, occasionally joined in as well; but Grace noticed his role tended to lean more towards peace keeper when the barbs got out of hand. Which, when it came to Hawkeye, Trapper, and Frank, was quite often.

There was the distinct sound of snapping rubber gloves and Hawkeye said, "We still double-parked out there, Klinger?"

The corpsman, who was wearing a knee-length white nurse's dress and matching cap, shook his head. "Major Burns just got the last one, sir."

"Poor bugger." Trapper was straining, using the long-fingers to pull a stray piece of shrapnel from the innards of his sixth patient.

Burns shrieked, "_Colonel_!"

So engrossed in his own patient the Colonel didn't even acknowledge Frank's outburst, but instead was giving nearly silent orders to his nurse.

"This kid's got enough metal in his guts to make a door-stop," Trapper said to her, tossing yet another fragment into a metal tray. A sharp ping sound echoed throughout the room.

Hawkeye, who was now glove-less, materialized at his bunk-mate's side and looked down at the patient's open abdomen. He spoke quietly so only Trapper and Grace could hear. "Ok, Trap?"

"I've pulled about twenty fragments outta this kid so far," Trapper shook his head, dropping yet _another_ hunk of metal into the tray. "There are bubbles all over the place."

"You want help?"

The blonde hesitated for the shortest second before nodding and Hawkeye stopped one of the passing nurses, "Margaret? Gown and gloves."

The three of them made their way silently into the scrub room almost an hour later, hungry and exhausted. Grace was struggling to undo a large knot in the tie of her mask, while Hawkeye and Trapper peeled away their surgical gowns and tossed them into a soiled linen container a few feet away.

Hawkeye let out a sigh, washing his hands in the large scrub sink. "Two weeks of boredom followed by six hours of sheer terror."

"So business as usual."

"Business stinks."

"You're expectin' an argument?" Trapper came up behind her and batted her hands away from the knot. He had it untied in seconds. "You need to practice," he whispered to her; she simply frowned at him over her shoulder. "I don't know 'bout you, but I could do with some dinner."

"I want _three _olives in _my_ dinner."

"Give me some of the new batch, I'm feelin' lucky tonight."

Grace pulled the elastic from her hair and it fell loose over her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it, carefully working to massage away the small headache that had started building in her forehead. She didn't know if it was from being tired or hungry, and she sent out a small prayer that the mess tent was serving something a little more appetizing than watered down potatoes.

"Wanna join us for dinner, Gracie?"

She turned around quickly and sent the two surgeons a smile, "Sounds great, but I think I'm going to get _solid food_ tonight." She raised a hand to her forehead. "Hungry headache."

"Hungry headache?"

"I haven't eaten since this morning."

"I always thought the food in the mess tent _gave _headaches, not _cure_ them."

Trapper furrowed his brow and glanced over at his bunk-mate. "You go get dinner ready, I'll be there in five."

"Where you goin'?"

The blonde smiled, "To cure a headache." And then his hand was in the small of Grace's back, steering her outside.

Once outside they walked together in companionable silence, Trapper holding the mess tent door open for her in a genuine gesture of gallantry. There were only a couple of people inside, milling about at the tables drinking coffee and being social after the long stretch in surgery. Trapper grabbed gentle hold of her arm and pulled her towards the cook, who was in the process of cleaning out the massive pots and pans that were still dirty from the meager lunch that afternoon.

"Yo, Igor."

The cook turned around and nodded, "Captain."

"How's the KP business?"

"Booming. What can I do you for?"

As if about to discuss the greatest secrets of the universe, Trapper took a look around before beckoning Igor closer with a wave of his hand. "You got any left?"

"Couple slices, give or take."

"Throw a bit on white and pick a couple good pieces of lettuce, ok?"

"Mustard? Mayo?"

"Is it the real stuff?" Igor made a face and Trapper immediately shook his head, "Just some butter."

The cook moved away from the counter and disappeared into the back of the kitchen as Trapper reached _across_ the counter and grabbed a flimsy piece of paper towel. "You're gonna owe me huge after this," he said, eyes twinkling. "I've been savin' this stuff for a special occasion."

Grace chuckled, "Well, don't spoil future good times on my account."

"I don't mind spoilin' 'em for you."

Igor appeared suddenly with a thick looking sandwich in his hands and Trapper reached for it, wrapping it carefully in the paper towel. "Thanks, pal." Once the two of them were alone, Igor returning to the bowels of the kitchen, Trapper held the sandwich out to her with the twinkle in his eyes. "The perfect headache remedy."

"A sandwich?"

"A _ham _sandwich. _Real_ ham, not army ham."

"Where on earth did you get _real ham_ from?"

"Radar, he's an Irish genius." He smiled. "_Wheelin' and dealin'_, he calls it. He's got a friend down at the 8063rd and the two of them can get practically anything through requisitions. It's kinda crazy, actually."

"Anything?"

"_Anything_. He got us striped tube-socks, once."

"Striped tube socks?"

"Yep. We never _used_ any of them but we had them."

Grace laughed out loud, falling into step beside him as they left the mess tent together. Looking over at him, she said, "Thank you for the sandwich, Trapper, that was sweet."

"Not a problem. Quickest way to a girl's heart."

"Real ham?"

Sending her a knowing wink, he nodded, "Real ham."

The moment she crossed the doorstep of the Swamp a masculine scent swept over her and she was reminded that it'd been months since she'd last set foot in a man's space. It was a large tent with three bunks, three foot lockers, a writing desk, a make-shift book shelf, and the famous homemade still bubbling away on a rickety table.

There were magazines and newspapers thrown all over the place, along with pieces of clothing, pencils, half-finished crossword puzzles, and honest-to-goodness _garbage_ on the floor. But despite all of that, Grace couldn't deny that she felt comfortable in their tent…welcome and at ease.

"How's the headache?"

Hawkeye was wearing his trademark red robe, obviously having wasted no time getting rid of the bloodstained surgical scrubs. He was lounging comfortably in the tatty easy-chair beside his bunk with a martini in his hand and an impish smile on his face.

Grace showed him the sandwich with a smile, "A cure is forthcoming."

"Trapper John to the rescue."

The aforementioned Trapper John was making his way towards his own bunk, pulling off the white scrubs and exposing the grey t-shirt he was wearing underneath. Within seconds he was wearing his blazing yellow bathrobe and reaching for the martini that was waiting for him beside the still.

They were a picture of relaxation, the both of them, wearing their robes and sipping martinis. She could close her eyes and imagine that they were sitting on the back porch of one of their cottages, enjoying the sunshine and talking about trivial things—colleagues at work, the fact that the mail was running late, the dog across the street that _wouldn't_ stop barking. Things that people in everyday neighborhoods talk about while drinking their morning coffee and reading the newspaper.

They _weren't_ on a back porch, though.

Not by a long shot.

Grace took a seat on the edge of Hawkeye's bunk and took a bite of the sandwich, amazed at how great the simple ham, butter, and lettuce creation tasted. She must've looked completely blissful because Trapper was watching her, an amused expression on his face.

He quirked an eyebrow, as if to ask '_is it good?'_

Too busy chewing to answer out loud, Grace nodded and tried to smile around the mouthful.

Trapper simply smiled.

"Want some of our leftovers to go with that sandwich?"

Finally swallowing the mouthful, Grace glanced at the gin sitting innocently in the still. She was sure it would go straight to her head, she knew she'd be silly after one or two glasses...but the expectant looks on both Hawkeye and Trapper's faces made the decision for her. "I'd love one."

Both of them cheered joyfully and Trapper stood from his seat, going to the still.

"Have you tried the gin we put in your basket?"

"No, not yet."

"Ok, well, drink it slowly," Hawkeye said knowingly, as Trapper handed her the now full glass. "This stuff can take the rust off of pennies."

The clear liquid _looked_ serene enough and she carefully took a sip, barely able to hold in a gasp at how utterly dry it was. She'd had martinis before in her lifetime but _this_ stuff was like liquid in reverse—somehow, drinking it _made_ her thirsty.

They were both watching her and when she was finally able to speak, her voice came out weak and horrifically raspy. "Wow."

Hawkeye grinned while Trapper let out a loud laugh.

She cleared her throat. "Do you drink this stuff a lot?"

"We drink this stuff _constantly_." Hawkeye raised his glass in a 'cheers'. "It's our lifeblood, our inspiration."

"Yeah, it inspires us to keep livin' our lives."

Grace took another small sip.

The gin was actually pretty good. Once a person got used to their tongue being numb, that is.

_END_


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